


Her Muff

by Avery Wolf (Sketchington)



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Master/Pet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-16
Updated: 2014-04-16
Packaged: 2018-01-19 14:52:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1473814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sketchington/pseuds/Avery%20Wolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A dom gives his pet a special gift he's created for her, a seemingly mundane muff that doubles as a furry arm restraint.</p><p>Audio recording of the narration by the author can be found here: https://drive.google.com/file/d/0BxHScTe0CbB-bC1GR0tvSXdqWkU/edit?usp=sharing</p>
            </blockquote>





	Her Muff

Her Muff  
by Avery Wolf

Audio recording of the narration by the author can be found here: https://drive.google.com/file/d/0BxHScTe0CbB-bC1GR0tvSXdqWkU/edit?usp=sharing

Nobody’s been able to sell me on rope yet. While shibari is an art that can produce gorgeous silk webs about the human body, I’m not confident with knots and I haven’t wished to take a class yet.  
But I do like to sew, and to create something special for someone special to me, family, close friends, and in this case, my special pet. My beautiful, adored, doted-upon pet.  
She has asked me to restrain her arms and I have twice, once tying them together with a tie she bought me from Goodwill, that I later wore that night when I took her to dinner. Much of it was still very wrinkled from the strain and knots, but thankfully, those areas were hidden beneath the vest I wore; her secret.  
I pride myself on some level of creativity. The idea came to me to make her a muff.  
A warm muff.  
A snug, warm muff.  
A snug, warm, pink muff.  
Well, black. Black goes with everything. I guess one can only take a double entendre so far. She is not the sort to wear pink.  
I spend a few hours sewing together most of it. A black, fake fur shell, not too thick, a foot and a half long. At the ends I install thick elastic to hold it to her arms three inches above her elbows, though not too tightly. The elastic is held with clasps so they can be released, allowing what is essentially a long sleeve to bind her arms together firmly to open up and with some creative folding become a seemingly innocent muff. What was created as an instrument of her restraint becomes an elegant, if antiquated accessory. I create two replaceable inner liners out of an old pair of her uniform stockings. The playful uniform. 

Tangent:  
She has two uniforms, playful and elegant. Both involve her charm belt, a long length of charm-bracelet chain reinforced by black, velvet ribbon upon which we hang the charms she’s earned from our scenes.  
Her playful uniform consists of thigh-high stockings striped in two shades of her favorite color, with matching, fingerless gloves I fashioned out of matching stockings that go up past her elbows. She wears a cat collar with a charm on it that represents her view of me. This is not a collar in the possessive “collaring” sense, just a prop, an affectation like the Abby character from the show “NCIS.” She is mine, all mine, but only in her moments with me. Our fantasy moments that exist outside of our muggle lives or her other fantasies. And naught else. This uniform she wears when she just wants to have fun on a weekend afternoon and then lie around in bed in warm, sticky afterglow as I tear off bits of chocolate-chip pancake to feed her.  
Her formal uniform consists of elegant, embroidered, thigh high stockings, semi-sheer in a dark hue of a color that suits her darkest moods. I have made special elbow-length gloves out of a matching pair of stockings. Unlike her playful outfit, these gloves cling to her arms in a tight, managed fashion, as if they treat her with a professionally-minded dignity. She has the charm belt, four charms upon it, currently, and a black velvet choker with a charm at the throat that represents her view of me in this formalized incarnation of our dom/pet relationship. Sometimes, at the whim of her mood, to add extra formality, she wears a small mask. Originally just a thick strip of lace (thank you, “Don Juan deMarco”) it is now an ornate thing of beauty. The base mask was purchased at some expense, and we spent an afternoon together decorating and modifying it to suit her spirit in her moments as my elegant pet.

But back to her muff.  
I put a good deal of effort and no small amount of affection into the construction of her muff. To celebrate, I procure us a hotel room, the affordably-special sort with a garden tub. She meets me there we exchange some friendly banter about our days and lives. As we do, I file away any nail from the first three fingers of my right hand with an emery board, promising digital delights with my expression as she tells me about a new project she’s working on, distracting her. She excuses herself to the bathroom to change in more ways than one.  
To become my pet.  
Specifically, to become my elegant pet, as I requested for this special occasion. I quickly take that opportunity to pull out the ten candles I’ve secreted about the room and light them, dimming the lights, my attempt at showmanship. As she transforms for me, I transform the room for her. I switch out of my standard attire of dress shirt and vest into a fitted black dress shirt and snug black slacks. The desired attire a sub has for their dom is generally simpler than the ornate fashions a dom desires for their sub. I put on the music, a playlist we’ve slowly developed together over time, sometimes just as an excuse to chat while at our jobs. I sneak a couple puffs from my inhaler. I’m only human.  
She reenters the room in her basically-nude splendor. She has chosen to wear the mask on this occasion, sensing it’s import. The candlelight plays over her skin like the dozen hands I wished I had in that moment to do just that. And the light, while not incredibly bright doesn’t leave much to the imagination. She is beautiful and I would not deprive myself of the sight of her too much for mood. My eyes devour her every time I see her. She has commented that they go a bit to the blue-green in these instances and my wide pupils do not hide my thoughts at all, even when catching up over tacos on a lunch hour. At least that enlargement that betrays my thoughts is socially acceptable.  
I want to tell her how beautiful she is. I want to dote upon her with ghost kisses, nibbles, and soft strokes of my fingers and express how fortunate I am to have her, as my pet and as my friend. But I have a gift and that is the subject of this rendezvous. I hand her a black box with red ribbon. She opens it and smiles at the furry tube in its bed of red gift tissue, hiding her confusion.  
“Take off your gloves, my pet,” I say, my voice probably pitched an octave lower by desire and command.  
She smiles playfully. She bites the tip of the middle finger of her left glove and pulls it back, then the index, then the ring, in that practiced manner of burlesque performers that always punches me in that part of the brain that still gets surprised, like an adolescent seeing breasts for his first time. The glove comes off of her arm slowly and teasingly, dominating me from below and I adore her for it. Halfway off. Then eased the rest of the way with her other hand. She repeats the taunting disrobing with her other glove, knowing that having her nude body on full display has fallen out of my mind in the presence of this act of her playful spirit.  
I want to pull her body to me, to press my stiffened, pants-clad desires against her moist pout as I crush her lips to mine and take every kiss left in her lips, and every kiss she will ever give another and pour my kisses into their place.  
But I have a gift for her.  
I take the inner shell stocking from under some of the red paper and pull it over one arm, then over it, Ipull the black, furry construct, hanging loose like wing. I work her other arm into the shell above the first like Geenie about to nod and grant a wish. My wish. I pull the muff over the other arm and secure the elastic above the elbows with the clasps, tightening the muff comfortably along the length of both arms, my affections hugging them through my craft.  
She is pleased. She gives them a try in her limited, bound capacity to do so. A role of her shoulders brushes them under her breasts, tickling them. We smile at each other as she plays them about the underside of her breasts, but her eyes fall shut as they reach her nipples, losing herself in sensory delight. I guide her down to the bed as gently as a feather brushing a cloud and part her legs. She is freshly shaved, something she’s done not just to please me, but to aid me in pleasing her.  
I draw my tongue flatly over her slit, tasting the desires I’ve inspired.  
I stiffen my tongue to a point and draw it up her line, parting her lips slowly. I reach her happy nub at the top of her lusts and draw small circles around it with my tonguetip. Slowly, softly. Gentle as a feather brushing a cloud. After an acceptable amount of moans of protest, of her body begging me to go faster in primal, non-verbal ways, I speed the strokes of my lingual stylus upon her, moving side-to side. Normally by this time, her hands like to twist her nipples, but they can’t. I’ve secured them. As I speed my strokes and tease her lower lips with a fingertip, she desperately plays her furry sheath upon her nipples, trying to gain that familiar sensation, but being forced to endure something far softer, like feather play where one desires a slap. It is a new, divine agony that hits her in that same, surprisable brainspace.  
I taste her and drink her desires, churning more lust and wet passion from her body with two fingers, crossing and uncrossing within her. Until she moans out her climax, with a tinge of surprised delight.  
I disrobe, springing out of my clothes at full-mast and lay back upon the bed. I keep the dress shirt on, open, as if holding on to just a scrap of my shell of command. I maneuver her above me, holding her to my body. I lubricate myself and position my head at her greedy pout and slowly push it past her lips. Though she is sodden inside by my ministrations, I am still just a bit thicker than she can easily take so we start slow as always. I pull the head back out and then push back in, teasing her lips with the sensation of that mushroom cap playing with her. She squirms upon me, furry muff below her breasts pressed to my chest, her cheek on my shoulder. I slowly guide myself inside of her.  
Halfway in.  
Then back out.  
Three-quarters in.  
Then back out.  
We push me inside her to the hilt and just stay in that moment. She stares down into my eyes in that intimate manner I love, like my spirit enters hers as I enter her body. I cup her cheek and brush my thumb softly over her cheekbone under the mask. She squeezes me, so I flex out at her. We slowly move together until we’ve developed a secure rhythm.  
Now to test her.  
I lean her back up so she sits straight upon me. I put my hands at her hips and have her ride me, faster now that she’s accustomed to our size-to-tightness disparity. I had this position in mind to instill her trust in me, to make sure she could ride without her hands knowing that I would support her.  
After a few songs (I can’t help but count sometimes to keep track of our progress in certain respects), she has displayed the trusted abandon that I’d hoped for and I readjust myself into a bit of a “reverse table” pose as they call it in yoga, but what I prefer to call “The Throne.” I move her feet under her to put her in a squat supported by my body beneath her and inside of her and pound upward. She has disregarded stability and like a good dancing partner’s follow she rides and trusts the whims of my body and ability to keep her aloft. I buck her up harshly and knowing that we’re on a super-wide bed that will catch her if she falls, she lets go of any remaining concerns and frees herself to the sensation. I imagine what it will be like to bind her hands behind her with the muff and use it as a handle to take her from behind. She moans and swears and practically sings until she’s lost count of her orgasms and I release into her, impaling her in a climactic pose of throne that holds her aloft. She seems to float there, like a bird at the top of an arc, about to let gravity overtake it. I ease her down with me, laying her over my body as we catch our breath. I remove her mask and stroke her hair affectionately, delighting in the treasure of her face, her spirit.  
We take a bath together in the garden tub. She still has enough energy left to get off twice on the jets as I play the role of bath pillow for her. We dress up nicely, I in a suit over my black fitted shirt and slacks, she in a lovely black dress and wrap over her elegant uniform stockings, charm belt, and choker. and we fold her furry restraint into a muff to keep her hands warm. The sweaty undershell stocking is put aside with the rest of our laundry. We go out to dine. Though it is not cold, the whole trip she holds her hands in her muff, a seemingly mundane item that holds a powerfully erotic memory, like a wood brush a sub brushes her hair with daily, that is often used to spank her.

At dinner I give her the charm she’s earned, two black wings bound together.

Maybe I’ll make her a “playful” muff out of bright blue fur for her birthday and add googly eyes.


End file.
